


Bury Your Teeth in My Veins

by dogtit



Category: Ever After High
Genre: Biting, F/F, Shower Sex, i never have and i am writing about it through rose tinted glasses, note; dont attempt this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-14
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-06-08 08:02:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6846262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogtit/pseuds/dogtit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Duchess is a biter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bury Your Teeth in My Veins

**Author's Note:**

> randomly generated prompt from tumblr; shower sex, hoo

The slow hiss of water and steam echoes in her ears as she stands beneath the spray. Dragon Game matches aren’t as tussle-heavy as bookball--not that Poppy’s on that team anyway--but she’s still covered in a fine film of sweat, half melted ice, soot, and cotton candy. She’s glad that the locker rooms have a shower with all the works; she doesn’t think she has the energy to head back up to the room. Darling and Holly have snuck off before her anyway. 

 

Poppy shudders. She loves her sister, she really does. She just wishes she knew way, way less about her, sometimes. 

 

It does mean she’s pretty much locked out of the room for the night, though. She supposes she could bunk in with Rosabella, if she doesn’t have  _ her _ girlfriend over. If so then she’s going to have to bunk with Justine, unless  _ Justine _ has Jillian over, in which case, it’s roomie hot-potato. Maybe she can talk her way into sleeping over with Ashlynn; at the least, even if she has Hunter over, Poppy knows the most they’d get up to would be nose nuzzling and chaste kisses. 

 

“You put on a good show out there.”

 

Poppy squeaks and brings an arm across her chest, half twisted around to see her intruder, only to relax at the figure she can make out through the steam. The fear leaves, but modesty still has her covering her torso. 

 

“Duchess!” Poppy slicks her hair back with a free hand. “What are you...?" Did Duchess come to collect her? Has she really been taking _that_ long of a shower? "How long have I been in here?”

 

“Fifteen minutes.” Duchess sits on the bench of the locker room, one long leg crossing over the other at the knee. No stockings today, Poppy notices, and feels her heart kick into high gear. “Don’t worry. Everyone else left. They prefer the relative privacy of their dorm room showers.” 

 

“Y-Yeah? Well, good for them. I’d do the same, but uh, Holly called dibs.”

 

Duchess quirks a brow.

 

“Darling’s with her,” Poppy explains with a sheepish grin. Duchess makes a soft sound of understanding in her throat, her cheeks dusting pink. “Anyway, I planned ahead! Got soft comfy ‘jams in my locker, a towel, the works. All I need is a place to crash.”

 

“You say that like you  _ aren’t _ coming home with me,” Duchess says archly, leaning back on her hands. “Aren’t you in the middle of washing yourself, O’Hair?” Her voice lowers. “Don’t let  _ me  _ stop you.”

 

“Right. Um.” Poppy looks at the tiled wall, and lathers a hand towel. “I mean, babe, I would  _ totally _ room with you, but uh, Lizzie might not like it that much. Your hands wander.” 

 

“Mm. And if I said Lizzie was having a Wonderlandian sleepover?”

 

Poppy pauses, running the cloth over the curve of her shoulder. Blood rises just beneath the surface of her cheeks, something she can’t blame on the water temperature. Beads of heat slide down her spine, and her voice is only a little breathless as she replies, “Well then sign me up.”

 

She thinks she hears fabric shifting as she quickly washes herself, soaking in the warmth of the water. The last of her body wash has swirled into the drain when long arms wrap around her face, and miles of silky, bare skin press against her back. 

 

“Holy--” Poppy jerks, gasping. “Duchess! This is the  _ locker room _ , put your clothes back on--”

 

“I locked the door,” Duchess husks against the shell of her ear, her long fingers swirling around Poppy’s navel, her ribs. “And you certainly have no trouble getting naked in here. Waiting for someone?” Her nails dig into Poppy’s skin just so, her voice carrying the faintest trace of jealousy. 

 

“You’re the only one I’d wait for,” Poppy manages, her eyes fluttering from the sensation. Poppy remembers it bothering her only slightly with how possessive Duchess could be, considering Poppy was as independent as they came, but soon it had become endearing. Even  _ thrilling _ . “No reason to be jealous,” she ribs.

 

“There’s plenty reason to be jealous,” Duchess grumbles. “Surrounded by all those girls in the stands, having to hear them moon over you…”

 

“ _ They _ are not my talented, stubborn butt of a girlfriend,” Poppy says, turning her head. She catches Duchess pouting before she rises on her tiptoes to kiss it away. “You’re the only one I want,” she whispers against the corner of her mouth. “They don’t matter to me in that way. Potential friends, sure. Clients? Absolutely. But  _ you’re _ my girl. None of them.” 

 

Duchess kisses her this time, and far less chastely. Poppy feels the startled moan rolling in her throat before she lets herself melt. Duchess’s teeth nip at her bottom lip; she opens her mouth and Duchess hums, deepening the kiss. Poppy feels her legs shake; she turns her head suddenly, gasping, breathing in only steam before she sputters. 

 

“P-probably not the best place to make out. I’m gonna fall.”

 

She regains her balance just as Duchess turns her around, hooded hazel eyes dark. Her hair is down, which--duh. They’re in the shower. Of course Duchess’s hair would be down. Poppy’s fingers still itch to sink into her hair, deepest black twined with natural highlights of ivory. She’s made it no secret how much she adores Duchess’s hair, after all.

Duchess pushes gently. The cold tile against her back is a shock at first until Duchess ducks her head, cupping her face and kissing her hard. Every inch of that lithe, disciplined body presses against her own; she’s dizzy from the cataclysmic storm of fireworks bursting inside of her skin in contrast with the warm water, the cold, slick tile. She shakes, but not from fear. 

 

“Duchess,” she breathes. “...Impatient, huh?”

 

Duchess snickers against her cheek, pressing soft, teasing kisses down the line of her jaw. “You don’t know what that uniform does to me. That gauzy little...buttcape, whatever, it turns you into such a  _ tease _ .” 

 

“T-tease--ah!” Poppy’s laugh drifts into a low groan when Duchess kisses the lobe of her ear, then nips. A precursor to what she’s capable of; Duchess is a biter. She digs her fingers into the slippery muscles of Duchess’s shoulders, pulls her closer. “What do you mean t- _ tease _ ? It’s just my butt.”

 

Duchess’s hands rake down her back, settle on the curve of her butt, and she grips. Poppy groans again, hips rolling forward; she finds a firm, muscled thigh slid between her own and feels Duchess smirk against her neck a split second before her teeth seize. She hisses; Duchess sucks against her neck, her hands roaming up and down her back. Poppy breathes out, a half laugh caught against Duchess’s lips. It doesn’t hurt; not anymore, at least. It took them both a while to figure out a good compromise of suction, and biting, that let Duchess mark as she pleased and wasn’t a literal pain in the neck for Poppy. She rolls her hips again, sighing breathlessly at the slow, slick friction.

 

“What about--” Duchess bites just below the first mark on her neck, humming. “ _ Grimm, _ Duchess, what about you?”

 

“I’ll collect on this tonight,” Duchess mutters.

 

Fair enough. Poppy lets herself sink into it, tangling her fingers in Duchess’s hair, tenderly tugging at her scalp to get her mouth to move to a different spot on her neck, or to kiss her; she’s not really picky. Duchess decides on the latter, licking her way into her and gripping her hips. She makes Poppy rock again; she whimpers into Duchess’s mouth. She’s down with a bump and grind, but it’s more foreplay than anything actually stimulating; Duchess laps down to the front of her throat and starts to bite again, her hands roaming everywhere. One grips a breast, gently circling a rosy peak; another resting against her womb. 

 

Duchess’s hand feels like a searing tattoo, the tips of her fingers teasing against slick curls with every slow press of her thigh. 

 

Frustration cranks in her blood; Poppy thinks about biting back a whimper, resisting, demanding. But she breaks down quickly, whispering, “P- _ please _ …”

 

Duchess kisses below her ear again. “Already?” Her voice is gentle when it could be mocking, and Poppy shivers head to toe and nods silently. She props Poppy more firmly against the wall, moving her thigh away to carefully nudge open her legs; the first touch of Duchess’s cool fingers nearly makes her shout. 

 

“Oh, wow,” Duchess murmurs. “ _ Wow _ . If my mouth wasn’t busy…” 

 

“Next time,” Poppy pants, feeling her lips curve into a grin. 

 

“Next time,” Duchess agrees, giving her a long, toe curling kiss as her fingers slide through her. Between the slippery water and her own, well,  _ herself _ , Duchess has no trouble spreading her open and dragging against her clit, painting slow circles. This time she  _ does _ shout, muffled as it is, and she digs her nails into Duchess’s strong back. 

 

Duchess bites carefully on her lower lip, her laughter shuddering in her bones. 

 

“You’re always like this after I bite your neck,” she comments breathlessly. “Hope you have a scarf with you.”

 

“I d-don’t,” Poppy wheezes, running shaking hands around Duchess’s waist. "Think so? Maybe?  _G-Grimm_ , Duchess, I..."

 

She cups her breasts, to elicit a reaction; Duchess’s eyes flutter and she sucks her lower lip between her teeth, fire crackling in her hungry stare. She swirls her fingers, crooks them just enough, and Poppy sees stars. It isn’t the best orgasm she’s ever had in her life but the rolling rush of heat still feels  _ fantastic _ and Poppy throws her arms around Duchess’s neck and clings. Duchess cups her, letting her ride it out against her palm, scattering trembling kisses against her chin and cheek. 

 

A minute passes, then two. “ _ Phew _ ,” she says, sagging. “Godmother, Duchess.”

 

A languid chuckle comes at her in return. “You’re so easy,” Duchess says fondly.

 

“We can’t both be high maintenance,” Poppy teases back, and kisses her. She wants to touch back, the need a deep seated itch in her bones, but Duchess swats her butt and clicks her tongue. 

 

“Out,” she fusses. “Get your clothes on. The faster you do, the faster we’re back in my room.”

 

Poppy stumbles out of the stall, laughing and rubbing the sting away as she gropes for her towel. “Gosh, rude!” 

 

Duchess ignores her. Poppy dries herself off, quickly slipping into the spare set of clothes and gathering her stored sleeping clothes. She grabs one of her scarves--a pastel lavender, the same color of Duchess’s dress--and slings it across her shoulders, but doesn’t wrap her neck just yet. She towel dries her hair, brushes it, and checks herself in one of the mirrors above the sink. 

 

As expected, Poppy’s neck is covered in purple bruises. They kind of match her hair. Poppy grins at her reflection, and decides not to tie her scarf at all. 

  
It’s not a walk of shame if there’s no shame in it, right?


End file.
